Frame Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 5) by Joe Reese, T Gracie Reese Page A

evening, which came first.
    “What are you talking about?”
    “The Red Claw.”
    “It exists?”
    “Yes.”
    “How do you know?”
    “I employ people other than yourself to move paintings.”
    “I’m aware of that.”
    “Last night I received, in the mail, a note. The note mentioned the name of one of these operatives, and said that I would not be hearing from her again. Nor would anyone else. It said that she’d been—well, ‘taken.’ The note went on to say, ‘I have the painting that the operative was carrying. Thank you. Now I want the rest of them.’ The note was signed, ‘Lorca Reklaw.’”
    “Where did he intercept the courier?”
    “Montreal International Airport.”
    “And the courier’s identity?”
    “Is not something that should concern you.”
    “So what do you plan to do about this Reklaw?”
    “I have several men in my employ. I pay them well to guard my estate in southern Austria, and the things that are in it. I like to think of it as a private museum, meant for the enjoyment of a few special people. No authorities have ever bothered me in connection with the pieces I possess and display. If they did, I would show them all appropriate papers, proving that I own the works.”
    “Of course.”
    “If this man Reklaw or any of his agents comes near my property—well, let us just say that I and my people would be ready, and would know what to do.”
    “I see.”
    “Nor do I intend to stop collecting. The paintings have been located and paid for. I want them brought to me, ‘Red Claw’ be damned.”
    “So what do you want me to do?”
    “Be more careful. Avoid airports. Disguise the paintings.”
    “How the hell am I supposed to…”
    “I don’t care. That’s what I pay you for—just do it!”
    And, so saying, Beckmeier was gone.           
          
    By the twentieth day of October, fall had begun to arrive in Bay St. Lucy. The air was still somewhat warm, of course. But the sea breeze had freshened, the light had changed and become golden, and the sky, more brittle somehow, had deepened its shade of blue.
    Nina and Carol were now settled into their routine.
    Nina would work mornings at Elementals, while Carol stayed at the bungalow and cleaned up, or read, or submitted teaching applications for positions to begin at mid-semester.
    Afternoons, the roles were switched, except that Nina took on the chore of buying dinner groceries.
    And she painted.
    It was remarkable, she found herself thinking, how therapeutic the hobby had become to her, especially when sweetened as it now was by her surrogate daughter, who praised her lavishly.
    And it was about painting she was thinking at ten fifteen—about how skillful she might have become, and how much she might have added to her life had she started as a young girl and not an old woman—when the small bell tinkled on the front door of the shop and a slightly built, blond, young man stepped inside.
    “Sorry—sorry to bother…”
    There was an accent of some kind, perhaps central European, she wasn’t sure.
    But, at any rate, she stepped out from behind the huge potted fern she’d been watering and announced:
    “No bother! Please, please, come in! Welcome to Elementals:   Treasures from the Earth and Sea!”
    The man smiled uncertainly, took two steps inside, and allowed his head to swivel around.
    “What a lovely store!”
    ‘Thank you!”
    “You have wonderful paintings here!”
    ‘We like them!”
    “By local artists, I assume?”
    “Most of them, yes. Some from New Orleans or Vicksburg or Jackson. We sell them on consignment. Please, feel free to look around,”
    He did so, walking slowly, nodding in approval as he passed various pictures or pots or silverware displays.
    “Yes, yes, all things of great quality.”
    “Well, Bay St. Lucy is an artists’ village.”
    “So I see.”
    “You’re new in town?”
    “Just drove in. I spent last night in—where was it?—Starkville, I think.”
    “And